


Haul Out the Holly

by apanoplyofsong



Series: let your heart be light [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M, Neighbors, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apanoplyofsong/pseuds/apanoplyofsong
Summary: Clarke's neighbor keeps sabotaging her Christmas decorations, and there's really only so much she can stand.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kacka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/gifts).



> Kacka asked for a real-life Grinch stealing decorations who, whoops, turns out to be the cute neighbor, and that's mostly what she got.

The first time it happens, Clarke lets it go.

Well, as much as she can anyway, which means that she tries to give her neighbor the benefit of the doubt. Mostly.

It _was_ the day before Thanksgiving, and the ribbon she strung up along her railing _did_ technically cross over in front of his house.

But it’s the first year that she’s on her own with a place to decorate and, as the newest employee at the hospital, she ended up with an overnight shift on Thanksgiving Day. She just really wanted to come back to her little rowhouse, cheerful and decked out for the season when she was finally, finally off shift, and that meant getting things up a little early.

Instead, Clarke comes home to find bright red ribbon shredded where it had crossed the single slat separating her porch from the adjoining home's next door. Strands of it are left in a messy pile by her door. They didn’t have the decency to just throw the ribbon away or even cut it off, like a normal human being, instead of yanking so that one of the bows now dangles from the wire attaching it to the wood.

But, whatever. It did technically go up before the socially accepted time frame, and she’s been awake for 30 hours with patients who decided frying their turkeys before defrosting them was a good idea. There is not enough energy left in her body to deal with it. So she grabs the proffered sabotage, tosses it out, and falls face down on her bed before passing out.

 

* * *

 

The second time, she’s pissed.

She’s pretty sure that’s justified, at this point. Not only is her neighbor--whom she’s never actually met! they have no legitimate reason to hate her! probably!--apparently getting joy out of destroying her Christmas decorations, they’re not even doing it with skill.

Clarke has only lived here for about 2 months and, between an inconsistent schedule and being generally okay with isolation, she’s never done more than wave to the guy her age who’s always out gardening at the end of the street. But she’s seen her neighbors in passing, and she feels pretty safe assuming the same one who carried out the Ribbon Incident is responsible again. The motorized scooter the octogenarian on her right rides definitely can’t take Clarke’s porch steps. She had really been rooting for the man on her left because, frankly, he’s absurdly attractive and she’s all for idle daydream material, but not if the subject in question is a giant dick.

A giant, incompetent dick, by the looks of it.

“Couldn’t even use fucking wire cutters? Or scissors, at least?” she mutters to herself, examining where the frayed wire is messily cut. Her windows are lined with large white lights, the kind that make her feel like she's stepping into a gingerbread house every time she comes home, but one string is now only capable of reflecting the early morning sunlight back in her eyes.

Just as she’s debating what she can do to get even, bright chirps sound out from her bag. Hastily shutting off the alarm that signals her impending tardiness for work, Clarke stomps across the yard to her car, glaring over her shoulder at the cheerful red door of the adjoining house the entire time.

She slams the car door, just for good measure.

 

* * *

 

The third time, it’s inexcusable.

“Seriously?”

Clarke’s standing in her front yard, bags of groceries dropped around her in the light dust of snow where they fell when she saw the latest victim.

“Seriously?” she repeats. There’s no one around to respond, but she doesn’t care.

They went after the _penguins_.

Nondenominational, inoffensive, and--most importantly--cute, a cluster of three inflatable penguins had caught her eye at a holiday market and been tethered to her little patch of grass ever since. She doesn't have much of an actual yard, between the driveway and the narrowness of the rowhomes, but they had brightened up what was there.

Except, now, the one who was sledding has a giant slash across its face and the two stacked on each other’s shoulders to light the candle in a lampost each bore puncture marks on their back. All three wilt sadly, fans whirring in a futile attempt to refill the air that keeps escaping their shapes.

A car door closes behind her and she whirls.

“Hey!” Clarke calls before she’s really processed what she’s doing. She’s more than a little outraged, ice crunching underfoot as she comes to a stop in front of her neighbor. Her hair is wired with static and her cheeks are definitely red, but she doesn’t really care if her first introduction is a little crazy at this point.

He brought this upon himself.

She’s close enough to poke him in the chest if she wanted to (she wants to), but he manages to sound only a little startled when he takes in her presence.

“Oh, um, hi.”

It’s probably a good thing she’s mad, because he’s smiling at her, seemingly confused but happy, and he has _freckles_ she’s never been able to see before. His eyes are crinkling up under the tips of his dark messy curls and she’d be a little weaker in his presence if it weren’t for the drive of anger and bafflement.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Clarke will admit that she’s yelling. His smile drops, body stiffens.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I get that you apparently have some vendetta against Christmas decorations which, fine, whatever, that’s your problem, but you couldn’t--I don’t know-- _ask_ me to take them down or move them or something instead of _slashing my penguin’s face open_?”

The man just sort of gapes at her and for the first time, Clarke has a flicker of doubt. Could the 85-year-old on the other side actually be at fault? Was it some sort of weird protest against millennials?

“Okay,” he says carefully, “could you tell me exactly what you’re talking about? Maybe a little more slowly?”

Clarke huffs, crosses her arms. “You’ve been destroying my Christmas decorations. At least, I assume it’s you. First the thing with the ribbon, then you cut through the lights, and now--” she waves a hand at where the fabric flails behind her-- “now the penguins. Why?”

He stares at her blankly for a moment and then his ears pink, a hand going up to rub at the back of his neck.

“So, I definitely didn’t do any of those things. I actually, uh, really like your decorations; I thought they were nice. But,” he pauses for a second, clears his throat. “I do have a cat who’s kind of an escape artist. And an asshole. I have a feeling he might be your culprit.”

Clarke’s mouth clicks open and shut. Her neighbor’s standing there with a sheepish smile and the ribbon was _shredded_ and the wire was _gnawed_ and dear god she’s being targeted by a housecat.

He fidgets a little, not seeming to know how to take her silence. “That's indirectly my fault, though, so we can figure out what I owe you and I promise I’ll try to find--”

The laughter bubbles out then, and she can’t concentrate for a second, too overwhelmed with the sheer absurdity of the situation. When she has control again, she straightens, wipes at her eyes, tries her best to look serious.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, a rogue giggle hiccuping through her lips. “And I’m sorry for yelling at you, I just, _God_ \--” a snort escapes and she’s incapacitated for a moment again. “I just never considered a cat might be responsible.”

When Clarke looks up, he’s watching her, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes bright, laughter playing on the edge of his lips.

It’s a nice sight. She could still go for a daydream.

“You should come inside so we can figure something out. Maybe you can buy me dinner and we'll call it even.” She licks her lips. “Or maybe you can just buy me dinner anyway.”

He grins then, shakes his head. “Yeah. Maybe something like that.”

Clarke motions him after her, retrieving the pile of groceries in her yard before stopping.

“Oh, I’m Clarke, by the way.”

“Bellamy.”

She likes the way his footsteps sound beside her as she leads the way.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking holiday prompts on [tumblr](apanoplyoffic.tumblr.com)!


End file.
